


Might Soar and Sing

by Vampiric_Charms



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 06:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8568238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: Fingon has to believe they are all right.  Otherwise, he fears, he will lose himself as thoroughly as Meadhros to the uncertainties and unknowns left behind.  And, however briefly, he can almost imagine everything is the way it used to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A brief deviation from my usual corner, which I will likely return to soon. This is set not terribly long after Maedhros’s rescue from Thangorodrim, and so hints pretty strongly at PTSD and recovery. Technically no strong warnings here apply, but be aware of those as needed. Fingon/Maedhros is certainly involved, too, but I suppose you can ignore it if you want? 
> 
> Thank you to as always to **Naamah_Beherit** \- this time especially for pointing how how depressing the ending was so I changed it.
> 
> Also, come join me on my new tumblr, across-the-cypress-trees!
> 
> Enjoy!

Sunlight beamed down through the clouds, reflecting brightly off the rippling surface of the lake. Fingon shaded his eyes with a folded hand as he gazed up for a moment at the sky, taking in the bright blue dotted with cottony white. It was warm already for early summer, but the breeze coming off the water left it comfortable enough. He leaned back against the tree again, his hand falling to the small book held open in his lap.

A basket was open in front of them, filled with a light lunch picked at and mostly left to be. Or at least, Maedhros had merely nibbled at his cinnamon cake with mild interest while Fingon devoured the meal packed for himself. He still left plenty, though, just in case the opportunity arose to share a bit later. He planned to stay in this lovely glade by the water’s edge as long as he could with his friend’s company.

“Might we have brought more pillows?” he asked by way of conversation, turning his head slightly to see Maedhros staring into the distance over the lake beside him. “Or another blanket, perhaps?”

Maedhros scowled, brought back from his far-away thoughts and into the moment once again. “If you ask me that one more time, Finno, I swear I will go back to camp and leave you here.” 

Fingon’s posture tensed for just a moment, a flutter of worry pulling at his lips before he could hide it - his face had always been _far_ too expressive, he knew - and Maedhros sighed with frustration more at himself than at his cousin, waving his hand in silent apology for his tone. He tried to grin then and Fingon cleaved to it with all the hope he was capable of, even as rough as that grin had been with chapped lips in need of salve and chipped teeth awaiting repair. 

“We already have a blanket, don’t we? Really, now, this is fine.” Maedhros huffed through his off-set nose, not quite agitated but still not fully pleased for reasons he did not share.

Fingon nodded, accepting his words at face value without dispute. It had taken a fair bit of cajoling to get him to come this far afield at all, truly, and that itself should be counted a victory. What did it matter if his moods were still volatile? He had every right to be angry. Of course he did. 

He watched from the corner of his eye as Maedhros shrugged through his shoulders, stretching some of the ever-present tightness away, and shifted slightly to lie back on the blanket spread across the grass. His skin, once paper-thin and frail after such harsh exposure to the vicious elements for too long, was vibrant in the sunlight, and it was all Fingon could do not to reach out to touch his short hair as it fell across the scratchy wool like a wreath of autumn leaves from the tree above.

For such a brief few seconds, it was almost as if things were all right. Fingon realized with a start Maedhros had not seen those bright copper leaves fall here before; autumn last year he had still been bedridden.

“What are you reading?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Fingon blinked at the unexpected question and glanced away from his cousin, down instead to the book still held open in his lap. Some of the pages had flipped closed over his hand. “Poetry. Would you like to see? I think there are some pieces in here you may not - right, may not have heard yet.” 

He held the book out in a jovial offer, smiling widely despite the small bump in his words as they edged so close to the topic they rarely discussed at Maedhros’s adamant request, but Maedhros rolled away from him abruptly without responding. The smile faded slowly from Fingon’s face and he withdrew his hands, returning the book to his lap. He stared back out toward the lake wondering, suddenly, if this had been a bad idea after all. A familiar clench gnawed at his chest, eating into his stomach, and he took a deep breath to calm it away. 

They were all right. They had to be. 

The scent of grass and soil was thick around them, and he took comfort from it before turning his eyes again to Maedhros’s back, so near to his crossed legs there on the blanket. He listened to the gentle breeze through the leaves, to the easy pattern of his friend’s breath, and took heart.

“I recited poetry,” Maedhros murmured. He hadn’t turned around and his face was pressed tightly to the crook of his arm, causing his words to be rather muffled. Yet Fingon did not move, surprised as this little bit of information poured forth. Maedhros shook his head slightly, his hair falling across his broken ear like a delicate filigree of spider’s webs. “After they left me there. I repeated poetry in my head to keep from losing myself, to keep from losing track of time. I’m…”

His voice faded, and it took Fingon a moment to realize it was not because of the odd position of his head muting his speech but rather because he had stopped speaking altogether that silence had fallen again. Fingon stood up onto his knees and scooted closer behind him, hesitating for only a heartbeat before placing a hand on Maedhros’s shoulder. His cousin winced slightly, though he did not pull away.

The right thing to say died over and again on Fingon’s lips, and he bowed his head, fingers closing in a squeeze against Maedhros’s shoulder in the hopes that was enough. It was, just then.

“I stopped when I forgot what your voice sounded like.”

A weight of lead settled deep into Fingon’s stomach and he felt, for a very swift moment, as though the world were spinning out of control again, away from him and into an abyss he could not see the bottom of. “Nelyo…” He took in a sharp breath, hoping Maedhros didn't hear the shake of it, and let his upper back hunch forward until he was bent over his friend’s side without more than the hand on his shoulder for contact. For comfort. “Shall I - shall I read to you now?”

“No.”

Fingon simply nodded his understanding without comment. None was needed between them. This time the silence that fell was not gentle as before, nor was it calm, or tender as the warm summer breeze blew across their shoulders and tear-swept cheeks, knotting hair and catching over grass-stained clothing. 

A thin beam of sun shone scattered through the branches and leaves above, dappling Fingon’s arms, warming Maedhros’s face even as he turned away, and whispered to them with her sweet light. 

A song of hope not yet ready to be heard.


End file.
